Old Habits Die Hard
by HyddenMozy
1. The Act

Old Habits Die Hard  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own "Chicago", or any of the characters or songs from it. That honor goes to John Kander, Fred Ebb, the estate of Maureen Dallas Watkins. A few of the concepts presented here owe a bit to Rob Marshall, director and choreographer of the WONDERFUL Miramax film version. There. I think I've credited everyone. That said and done, enjoy the story!  
Roxie Hart sighed and turned over in bed. It had been a long night; one of many she'd been having lately. Her recent sleeplessness gave Roxie plenty of time to reflect upon her life - something the former chorine wasn't particularly fond of doing. Knowing that her attempts to fall asleep would likely prove futile, she dangled a slim leg over the edge of her bed, careful not to rouse its other occupant. The other leg followed suit, and she rose.  
  
Roxie made her way to the bathroom, and closed the door lightly behind her. She'd set up a small vanity within, in front of the bulb-rimmed mirror. The feel reminded her of a theatre's dressing room. She pulled out a chair which was beginning to lose its cushioning and took a seat, staring at the girl who peered out at her.  
  
It wasn't what she wanted to see. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!," she mentally cursed, "How did this happen?"   
  
The woman she saw wasn't too different from Roxie Hart, the vaudeville headliner from a few years back. Thick, blond hair still blossomed from her head, though it was no longer neatly coiffed as it had been when she was living out her prison-sprung showbiz dream. Her eyes were the same; blue, wide, and slanted in an attractive sort of way - but the dark circles underneath were not unnoticed by her. And - was that a strand of gray in her cornsilken locks? She yanked the guilty bit from her brow.  
  
"God damn it," she whispered with a quiet intensity, "This shouldn't be happening. I'm only thirty!" She quickly hushed as she heard what she believed to be a rustling from the bedroom. A minute later, she was convinced that it had been her imagination. Still, she decided to keep any further thoughts internal.  
  
Not for the first time recently, Roxie found herself longing to take back her rightful place onstage. It had been nearly two years since she'd experienced the thrill of performing - two endless years. Less than three months after their release from the Cook County Jail, Roxie had begun to notice something strange. Slowly but surely, Velma was taking over their show. What had started as a 'perfect double act' became increasingly Velma- centric. Velma made sure she was assigned the best and most flashy dance bits - Roxie was fairly certain she'd screwed the Chicago Theatre's directors, producers, and choreographers several times, if not everyone on the Orpheum circuit.  
  
One day, as the pair was rehearsing their routine and Velma went into a rather complex dance solo, Roxie had found herself unable to withhold her pent-up anger any longer. She boldly asked Velma why the other girl was hogging the spotlight. "Because," purred the raven-haired diva, "I'm the real star here. You may have gotten some attention for a crime of passion, but in the end, dearie, that won't substitute for talent. Now practice this step in the background, like you're supposed to." Velma had demonstrated Roxie's step, dull and repetitive in comparison to her own.  
  
"NO!," the blonde had screamed, nearly hysterical. At that moment, she refused to play second banana to Velma or anyone else. After regaining her wits somewhat, she made a final statement-"Fine then. Just - find a new 'partner' - or - do it alone or something! You obviously _think_ you can. Goodbye, Ms. Queen Bee!" And with that, Roxie had strode out of the rehearsal hall - and the theatre.  
  
She'd not set foot back inside since that day. She hadn't auditioned anywhere, either.for the first couple of weeks. Roxie Hart was anything if not a quitter. She'd managed to sing in a few nightclubs; small ones - not on the caliber of the Chicago, the Palace, or any other grand space she and Velma had played while on the circuit.   
  
In any case, it had been good enough. The pay allowed Roxie enough to rent a small apartment along State Street, not so different from the one she'd once shared with her pathetic blob of an ex-husband. Her performances, ill-attended as they may have been, gave her the chance to escape.and for Roxie, escape was as essential to her existence as the audience's appreciation. If not for her vivid imagination, Roxie never would have made it through her prison stay (alive) in the first place.  
  
Absentmindedly, Roxie began to brush her hair with a topaz comb lying nearby. She felt little of the spark performance gave her at the moment. Only three days ago, her latest gug had come to an abrupt halt when an undercover cop had caught her drinking from a flask of bootlegged gin. She hadn't felt much like looking for a job since, but instead tended to spend these recent days pitying herself and writing angsty things in her diary, still practically new-looking in its current resting place atop the apartment's small coffee table.  
  
Daniel Lissy, her current lover, still kept her occupied through the nights. To Roxie, he was less her boyfriend than a pleasant distraction - one which was highly valuable to her at the moment. Rising from her place at the vanity, Roxie leaned in the bathroom doorway and gazed upon her sleeping beauty. Physically, he was the epitome of male perfection. His hair was cut a bit longer and looser than was the style of the day, a rich brown. In sleep, his exquisite face drooped to one side and a few tresses brushed down to compliment his deeply tanned shoulder. His closed lids hid the hypnotic green eyes which had first attracted the fading star to him.  
  
In bed, Dan showed an incredible virility. He released in Roxie a wonderful feeling of submission the likes of which she hadn't felt since her initial press conference with Billy Flynn. She enjoyed Dan's dominant games, and felt that his boudoir-bound theatricality would see her through 'til the next job op rolled around.  
  
She knew, however, that what she and her bedroom-buddy shared could never become an honest, loving relationship. Dan had arrived only two weeks prior, a soda-salesman from Cincinnati thrown into Chicago by a job- related transference. He'd seen her perform at a club known as the 'Cat's Meow'. After the act, Roxie was pleasantly surprised when the strutting Adonis had approached her, saying that he appreciated her talents, and wondered how far they extended.   
  
They'd been steadily sharing a bed since that day, but never their life stories. Daniel Lissy knew nothing of "Roxie Hart, the Sweetest Little Jazz Killer to Ever Hit Chicago". In return, she got no information from him - and that was just fine, as far as Roxie was concerned.  
  
Now, Roxie approached the bed once more. Dan, it seemed, was beginning to stir. As she straddled the bed next to him, the dark man's eyes blinked open, into their full, green lushness. "Hi, honey," Roxie breathed, smiling down at him. He rolled over with a groan. Roxie wondered what was wrong. Sure, they'd had a lot to drink the night before, but he'd had time to sleep it off. "Aw, hon.," she coaxed, gently stroking the man's firm shoulders. He didn't respond to her touch in the usual way. Rather, Dan climbed out of the red-sheeted twin bed and stood up.  
  
The tiny blonde felt a familiar nagging at the back of her brain, but she wasn't quite sure of its origin. Desperate, she stepped in front of her paramour and removed her lacy white negligee, leaving only her scant black panties and bra. Dan remained as stone-faced as before, but she could swear she noticed an enlargement in his newly-zipped pants. "C'mon, what's eatin' you?" she asked urgently, placing a hand on Dan's chest. He responded by stepping around her. "Let me go, girlie, I gotta use the can."  
  
As he entered the bathroom, the strange, nagging feeling intensified. It was beginning to coalesce in her mind, with the audible rush of Dan's relief, but a complete picture refused to form still. Finally, as he exited the john, she let flow her frustration. "Daniel Lissy!" She shouted, her voice shaking, "Why are you acting like this?!" With the final inquiry, Roxie grasped his arm to keep him from turning away.  
  
With a cry that sounded more bestial than human, Roxie found herself sprawled on the floor, her arm beginning to bruise. The picture was now complete: This f-cker was no better than Fred Casely! Well, she was more mature now. She wouldn't let her emotions get the better of her.  
  
"Shut up, b-tch!" Dan half-growled. "You and I are over!" "Why?" demanded Roxie, propping herself up against the wall near where she'd fallen. "You ain't the hotassed nightclub singer I thought you was," he grumbled, fixing his hair as if he had somewhere important to be. He paused. "Take care of yourself, Rox. It was fun." Roxie was in tears, and she had a string urge to retrieve the small dagger which she kept in a bathroom drawer. But she vowed not to. Daniel Lissy was not the be-all and end-all of everything, despite what he thought. She'd find true love one day, she told herself, with someone far more deserving.  
  
"Now, I'm expecting someone here in a few minutes," her former lover said nonchalantly. So _that_ was why he'd been fixing his hair! "Be a doll and hide in the bathroom, or leave or something." "What?" Roxie gasped, unbelieving. Now the b-astard expected her to leave her own apartment so he could get his jollies on with another girl? She couldn't believe it! With an attempted air of dignity, she stepped into the bathroom and locked it behind her.  
  
Taking her place once again at the vanity, she began singing to herself through her tears, trying to imagine an audience through the brightly-lit mirror. It was a song she'd scribbled down in her diary but a few short weeks ago. "The footbridge; fifteen minutes, see.that's what you said to me. Will I go and meet you, though? It's hard to decide; you enchant me so. I recall the first time we spoke.," the audience smiled at her, and sighed with romantic escapism at her song and her lovely red dress.  
  
"Quiet, ya dumb broad! You can't sing!" All of a sudden, it vanished. The dress, the audience, the admiration.and all that was left was an aging chorine, clad only in underwear, tears running down her face, looking into a mirror masochistically.  
  
Whether fortunately, or un - she couldn't quite decide - but either way, Roxie's reverie was interrupted by the tinny ringing of her doorbell. "Shhh!," admonished Dan, as he went to answer the door. She heard it creak open, followed by the purr of a strangely familiar voice.  
  
"Hello, stranger." "Well, hey." "So, whatcha got planned for today?" "If I let ya know, how much fun would it be?" Roxie froze. VELMA? Velma Kelly, her one-time partner and rival, had been the one to steal her lover away? It wasn't.acceptable. As clothes were audibly removed from both persons in the other oom, and straight thoughts Roxie may have had vanished. Velma had given her far too much trouble, and she was going to be rid of the scheming panther once and for all - _and_ that f-cker she'd mistakenly taken for a lover. She noticed that her dagger was, in fact, lying out on the counter now. Had she removed it from its hiding place? She grabbed it, her intent set without another thought.  
  
Stealthily, Roxie opened the bathroom door. The happy couple was busy on the bed, making exuberant whoopee. They didn't notice her. She walked up right behind Dan, who was, as always, on top, even when screwing one as forceful as Velma. *Ahem*, she cleared her throat. Dan looked up, flustered, panting, and obviously pleasured. Before he had a moment to react, Roxie plunged the dagger deep into his chest. He rolled hard to the floor, struggled faintly, and fell limp. Roxie watched in morbid fascination as a pool of red-violet blood began to form around his torso.  
  
Velma had turned over onto her stomach, bewildered, but Roxie recognized her hair. "Roxie," she heard as softly as she figured Velma could manage, "don't do this, please." "You've gone too far, b-tch!" With that, Dan's blood mingled with Velma's as the knife sank into her back and was forcibly twisted out.  
  
Roxie watched the duo's last breaths escape them, and couldn't deny that she enjoyed it somewhat. Especially Velma.to see all her confidence stripped away was beyond satisfying, and to see such a dominant lover lying in a pile of his own filth, not unlike a newborn, was poetic justice. Roxie washed the congealing, brick-red fluid off of her hands with a bit of disappointment.she rather enjoyed its smell; its mark on her. The mark of one who wouldn't stand for anyone else stealing happiness that was rightfully hers.  
  
The tears only began to flow anew, and the panic to arise once again, upon the sound of a loud knock at the door. She knew it was an officer, so she wasn't that shocked when three men in uniform faced her on the opposite side of the door. Internally, she smiled. It had worked once, and if she played her cards right, this could be a ticket to fame and fortune for her once again. She had a good idea of what she was going to say. When asked to do so, she gave her most innocent look and began to tell her story.  
  
Forty minutes later, a black paddy-wagon made its way away from State Street and towards the Cook County Jail's maximum security section. Looking out through the bars of the car's holding compartment and at the street, Roxie wondered where she'd gone wrong. Her story had been feasible enough - Daniel had condemned her to the bathroom, and Velma had killed him, followed by herself. The police, however, were suspicious. According to Officer Fiore, it wasn't every day that someone stabbed herself in the back, but, as Roxie was eager to point out, Velma _had_ once been an acrobat. Maybe she'd wanted to do herself in in a spectacular fashion? Fiore, a former coworker of Roxie's old "friend" Harrison, had been suspicious of her from the start - but his partner, Edelstein, had been a long-standing fan of Roxie's. With a little provocation from her, he'd convinced Fiore not to have hr put directly on death row, a common occurrence for second-offenders.  
  
She'd have the same rights as all inmates were guaranteed. This brought her some relief, for it entitled her to a fair trial. Maybe she could get Billy Flynn to represent her again.she licked her lips at the thought of the sexy shyster. Maybe she could get him to do more than just represent her this time.  
  
Then it hit her: she had hardly any money; certainly not Flynn's standard fee of five thou. Who might she turn to for help this time? Last time around, manipulating Amos had been easy - but she hadn't spoken with the dope in about a year. Not that he'd likely help her much this time. There was Velma - who, no thanks to Roxie, was stone cold, and there was little chance the jazz sensation had included Roxie in her will. The kewpie-cute murderess wondered if Mama Morton was still working Cook County's murderess row. She had her suspicions about the Matron's sexual habits, and had a feeling the amply-bosomed matriarch could be coerced using means other than money.  
  
It was certainly taking a chance, though, no matter what she did. Roxie's bright blue eyes widened, and her teeth began to chatter as it hit her, for the first time, that she was in pretty deep sh-t. 


	2. The Review

Disclaimer: See the first one. Everything still stands. As always, all comments and criticisms are welcome!  
  
Chicago Tribune October 14, 1930  
  
"Sweetest Little Jazz Killer" to Hang By Mary Sunshine, columnist  
  
For its first forty-seven years, the Cook County Jail went without hanging a woman. Any female assaulter or murderess to be sent there could consider herself lucky. Eventually, and usually before too much time had passed, the lady in question would be proved innocent and freed, hopefully to begin life anew, and to have a more joyful existance than before. The prison's charmed history was brought to a screeching halt a few years back. In February of that year, one Miss Katelyn Helinski, a young immigrant from Hungary, was hung for a crime it was later discovered she did not commit. "I had a feeling that gal was innocent," confides Mrs. Morton, the former Matron of Cook County's murderess row. "Poor dear just couldn't afford a lawyer, or say much in English to defend herself." Indeed, all that Miss Helinski seemed capable of saying when asked for a final statement was a defiant "Not guilty!" Mrs. Morton retired comfortably from her job soon after the horrific event, saying it left her "disgusted and appalled". Morton's last week, however, also saw another event that's likely to stay in our collective memory for a while: the much-fanfared and ballyhooed release of jazz slayers Roxie Hart and Velma Kelly. I'm sure we all remember the infamous duo's grand tour of the Orpheum circuit, and their subsequent breakup. That's the last we heard of those glam-girls-with-guns for a while. Then, just a handful of months ago, they were back in the headlines. Roxie and Velma, it was found, had taken for a lover the same man, and attractive and dark stallion by the name of Daniel Lissy. When he and Velma decided to share her bed, Roxie apparently wasn't too happy. Both Daniel and Velma were discovered stabbed to death in Roxie's tiny apartment, and the blood was fresh on the young woman's hands. Responses to this act varied between disgust and disbelief, but sympathy for Roxie, in general, has been scarce this time around. This reporter, for one, doesn't believe that the brutal murderess deserves anymore pity, and coming from me, such is a very unusual statement. She killed once before, and, taking pity on the innocent country bumpkin whom we all assumed her to be, we released her. She was given another chance. It seems that Miss Hart has taken this blessing for granted, and has chosen to return to her life of crime. Many others share my viewpoint, as was made clear when Roxie's final appeal occurred yesterday. The verdict? She will be hanged. In one week, this final action will take place in the Cook County Jail's courtyard. It is to be a public affair, and anyone who has grown to despise Chicago's one-time 'Sweetest Little Jazz Killer' may watch. A large crowd is expected, but as disgusted as she is with Hart's behavior, this reporter will not be able to bring herself to attend.  
  
Miss Sunshine can be contacted at: (414)555-6309 during office hours. 


	3. Finale Ultimo

Disclaimer: As before, see chapter one's. Oh, and the song "I Move On", is of course, also accredited to Kander and Ebb, in case my first disclaimer didn't cover that. As always, all comments are appreciated!  
  
A curtain of darkness and near-silence had fallen over the place. The void circled in on itself, redoubled, and bounced off of the steel back wall, extending through the bars on the three other sides. It was the time of morning twilight when such stillness encompasses most of the eastern country, perhaps four-thirty or five A.M. Yet in Chicago, complete peace is never attained. In the corner of a particular cell in the Cook County Jail, a figure sat, balled up and rocking slightly, atop the measly pallet which served as a bed. Every few minutes, a ragged sobbing breath, having escaped from her lips, punctuated the air. She was not sleeping, though somehow this struck her as foolish. After all, tonight was her last chance to lie on a bed such as this. Tomorrow, there would come a much longer sleep.an endless one, even. Roxie Hart wiped an ever-yellow strand from her head, and with it, much of the morbid thought. She might as well not think of her fate until it was necessary -- until the guards fastened the noose around her neck and led her up the cold, steel stairs -- she felt a convulsion in her throat, but no tears came. She was beyond tears. Bereft of any more hope, Roxie shook her and continued to tremble. She had done everything in her power to avoid it coming to this. She'd attempted to keep her rage in check since her initial release -- yet it seemed that some unappreciative b-stard always managed to find his slimy way toward her. Then there'd been her fall from vaudeville glamour, and then Daniel -- and -- and Velma! That had been the final straw. Was it truly her fault that the underhanded couple had deceived her in such a way? Surely, it wasn't all her fault. Okay, so maybe in the end, it had been. Fred had been plugged by the gunshot from her hand; Dan and Velma had fallen victim to her steel blade, cold as their hearts. Still, Roxie knew she shouldn't die. She COULDN'T die. This act was "Survival", and Roxie was the champion. She'd outlasted Velma and was doubtless destined to outlast many more. But destiny must have made a wrong turn somewhere. A solitary tear descending her flushed cheek at last, Roxie glanced up to the barred window high on her cell's back wall. Faint pink and orange hues were just beginning to tint the horizon. Dawn was breaking, slowly but steadily, and before long it would be time for Roxie to finish the life-act with which she was so familiar. Unsteadily, she rose from her mattress and walked over to the bars of her cell, peering between them. Minimal lights, designed for the benefit of the guards who worked that ungodly shift, winked back at her, and took her back to that theatre, somewhere deep within the throes of her consciousness, on whose stage she'd so often performed while pining to break into "the Biz". There she stood, graceful as ever, on the blackened thrust, a small orchestra giving her an introduction to a song her heart new well. As always, Roxie was dressed splendidly for her performance, in a short-skirted dress of blue silk and a lighter chiffon scarf. An onyx-dangling lavaliere and some earrings carved from an identical material completed her ensemble. Her hair, which she'd allowed to grow out slightly over the past few months, framed her shoulders in a halo of white gold. "Ladies and Gentlemen," announced the bandleader -- was it just her or did he seem a bit saddened? -- "Miss Roxie Hart sings.her swan song." She began, sincerely regarding her audience. "While truckin' down the road of life, although all hope seems gone, I just move on." Now who could she make out in the audience? Her mother and father, both looking amazingly well for their age. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins, too. None were laughing or jeering at her fate, rather all were clapping and cheering for her performance. There was Mama Morton.come back for her show, and there was Billy.egotistical, manipulative, greedy, yet incredibly attractive Billy.she sighed and sang the next line of her song directly to him. "When I can't find a single star to hang my wish upon, I just move on.," She noticed Amos -- her former husband, smiling up at her as if he'd believed in her all along. She winked towards the old lug. "I move on." Vaguely, Roxie felt her wrists being taken by two strong hands, heard a grinding sound, and felt her body being nudged forward. She let this force move her, flowing with it as if it were just another dance routine. "I run so fast, a shotgun blast can hurt me not one bit," Some new faces appeared in the theatre's front row now. Not pleasant faces; visages twisted in ways far fiercer than Roxie remembered. Fred Casely, Velma Kelly, and Daniel Lissy attempted to cut her down from their places, silently chanting "Swing! Swing! Swing!" The rest of the audience was oblivious to the specters among them. Roxie knew she'd conquer them as well. She gracefully shifted about the stage, putting in a cute brush-step where she could. Pointing sharply at her unwelcome visitors and narrowing her eyes, she continued. "I'm on my toes, 'cause heaven knows, a moving target's hard to hit!" The phantoms vanished just as suddenly as they'd appeared. Roxie noticed a corridor turn in much-despised reality, and tried to suppress her knowledge of what it was leading toward. She turned a cartwheel on her personal stage, landing firmly and sliding into a perfect split. Then audience responded enthusiastically. Someone gasped as the shimmering temptress recovered, in a heartbeat, and resumed her song, gesturing to the audience so as to let them know that she was referring to everyone. "So as we play in life's ballet, we're not the dyin' swan.we just move on," shimmy-turn-pose! "We move on." Roxie was dimly aware of a swinging of doors, and at once she squinted as she was bombarded with more sunlight than she'd seen in the past handful of months. Or was it simply the grandest spotlight of them all? She glanced about -- thousands of people had come to watch her final performance. She would not disappoint. "Just when it seems we're out of dreams and things have got us down.," Step. The glamorous Miss Hart began to ascend a gilded staircase, her dainty black pumps echoing slightly against the opulent metal. Her audience followed her every move, enraptured. Step. "We don't despair, we don't go there, we hang our bonnets out of town!" The steps became stylized as a musical interlude briefly took over. The top was but a few stairs away now, and the jazz killer felt a faint pull of her wrists to that area. She didn't resist it, but rode this force up to the very top, all the while singing out to her ever-admiring audience. "So there's no doubt we're well cut out to run life's marathon. We just move on.we just move on." Having arrived at the peak, Roxie stepped out onto the glowing, rhinestone-encrusted platform. A flash of reality told her it was wooden, and that most of her true audience hated her with a passion. So she was to die, and all these dolts would enjoy it. Better she finish her grand finale in that theatre, with its magic and costumes, and the familiar, smiling faces of its audience. So she would. Turning to her wonderful fans, she flashed a brilliant smile and straightened her neck as if something were being fastened there. "So fade a foot, we can't stay put, we just move on -- Yes, we -- move -- on!" The audience roared with such force that her golden platform began to give under her. "Thank you!" Radiating the utmost composure and contentment, Miss Roxie Hart dove down to her fans and into the waiting arms of eternity. "Goodnight, Folks."  
  
fin 


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